Page 16 of Buck Baxter and the Mysteries of Love

I saw the half-finished plate of pasta in front of him.

I saw the blood all over his shirt, bright red seeping from at least six or seven gunshot wounds.

“Oh, fuck!” I whispered in a panic.

Bugsy Brown, the father I never got the chance to know, was dead.

How had someone snuck in here and murdered him without anyone knowing?

What the fuck were the goons at the door doing?

Did they even know their boss—my father—was dead?

A wave of emotion swept over me and I leaned toward him, taking his shoulders in my hands. “Bugsy! Goddammit, Bugsy! Who did this to you?”

Suddenly the corpse gave a cough and a splutter.

It jolted and shuddered.

I jumped back, then watched as Bugsy’s eyes blinked open, realizing he wasn’t a corpse at all.

“Buck? Is that you? Jesus, I must have fallen asleep again while I was eating. God, I hate it when that happens.”

“Bugsy? You’re alive? Fuck, I thought you’d been shot!”

I pointed to his shirt and Bugsy looked down, laughing. “You thought I’d been shot? You thought I was bleeding? Kid, that ain’t blood, that’s spaghetti sauce.”

I let out a relieved sigh, my legs swaying.

Bugsy gestured to the chair opposite him and told me, “Sit, sit!” then plucked a napkin off the table, mopped up his lips with it, then proceeded to smear the sauce all over his shirt in a hopeless attempt to clean himself up. “Ah, Jesus. Now I’ve gone and made it even worse. I would normally eat with the damn napkin tucked into my shirt, but I didn’t want you to think I was a slob or nothin’ so I left it out. By the way, you don’t mind that I ordered an entrée before the entrée do ya? A man’s gotta eat, right?”

“Indeed, you do, Signor Bugsy,” came a voice from behind me.

I turned to see a short, stout man with a twirly moustache and a chef’s hat teetering atop his head burst through the swinging doors from the kitchen, his apron just as splattered as Bugsy’s shirt and his hands juggling several plates—pasta pomodoro, clams carbonara, ravioli ragu, and a mountain of meatballs.

Bugsy pushed his half-eaten plate away and licked his sauce-stained lips at the sight of the next courses being laid out before him. “Ah, Luigi!Magnifico!You’ve outdone yourself yet again. Come and meet my son, Buck.”

I glanced from the feast Luigi laid on the table to my father. “We’re going public with our relationship? So soon?”

Bugsy shrugged. “What? Are you ashamed of your old man?”

“No. I guess I’m still just processing this whole father-son thing.”

Luigi grinned and patted my head like I was a puppy. “Ah, what a sweet littleragazzo.” The smile turned to a judgmental frown as he poked me in the ribs. “A little skinny, though. Make sure you eat the meatballs,” he demanded. “You want more garlic? I’ll bring more garlic.”

“No! I’m fine. I’ll eat the meatballs, I promise.”

Luigi’s smile returned. “Very good. Is there anything else you need, Signor Bugsy?”

“No.Grazie, Luigi.”

With a flap of the swinging doors that led into the kitchen, Luigi vanished, while I leaned across the table. “Are you sure we should be telling the likes of Luigi that I’m your son?”

“Why not? No good comes from keeping secrets.”

“Bugsy, you’ve spent your whole life deceiving the law. You’ve built an empire trading in black-market weapons and illegal booze. Your entire business model is based on secrets and lies.”

He shrugged again. “Well, maybe it’s time to turn over a new leaf. Now that I’ve finally come clean and fessed up to being your father, maybe I should start acting like one. And don’t call me Bugsy anymore. From now on, I want you to call me… Dad.”

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